alternative uses for birthday candles

open the top drawer of
the farthest kitchen cabinet 
to the left & take out a handful
of birthday candles--
you know which ones i mean--
the skinny ones that sob 
wax & grow from icing
count me out ten or so--
preferably in the color blue--

1. 
in the whole house 
light a single candle &
watch how hungry you've 
made your shadows--
coax them from out
beneath your desk &
your bed & let them 
bask in the tiny flame 

2.
drip a trail of
wax when you leave
the house at night
so they don't trick
u into getting lost

3.
get lost but on purpose
this time 

4.
flip over the full
moon like the head of a coin
so that it sits dark &
tails-up

5.
when you walk to the corn
field don't be afraid
to step inside-- make
popcorn with the heat of
the singular blue candle

6.
aligns fire's flicker
with you breath 

7.
when the candle goes out
re-light it on the sun--
only the sun & if it
begins to rain curl yourself
around it-- don't let
it know there's a storm

8.
tell it the name you 
wish you were called--
tell it the secrets only
spoken on your wordless skin--
tell it the kind of 
body you melt into--
drip wax on the way home 

9.
get lost
not on purpose this time--

10.
plant your candles in the ground 
in rows until they burn into
fig trees-- into blueberry bushes--
into an apple orchard--
& when they are done growing
sit down beneath them
& go back to the kitchen to
get more candles--

11.
lick the icing off the base
& bake a cake out
of dirt & jarred
light from the moon

12.
eat under the fig trees--
let their roots
entangle around you-- run
their fingers through your hair--

13.
lie to them & tell them it's
your birthday 

14.
they will know you are lying
but they will sing anyway 

15.
sing like a wind chime 
or a door bell

9.
in the thickness of the trees 
get lost

10.
leave off figs & apples 
& when you stop in a pool
of wax you will remember
that is this only candles 
& in the chest of every tree
is a fire that will eventually
go out

11.
watch the leaves melt &
let hot wax drip from your
mouth in place of 
the fruit you ate--

12.
& if you want to dripping
to stop-- blow our the candles--
all of them in one gust of
wind that somehow comes
from your mouth--
blow out the trees-- the leaves--
the foot prints your
left in blue up the spine
of your back yard--

1.
keep your wish 
under your tongue--
light the last candle from
the drawer & swallow it whole--
flame & all, then 
open your mouth & speak
to the moon 

& get lost as a door bell--
when the candle
goes out re-light it 

an open letter to my
guardian angel

i've been thinking about
a painting from the back
of a prayer card i had when
i was little--
there's this angel 
standing behind a little
boy & a little girl
while they cross a bridge--
neither of them can see the
angel's great swan wings
so they laugh & walks
forward-- laugh dangerously--
they're so young-- i thought--
to be so precarious--
do you look at me like a stone 
to skip or do you listen
to my thoughts gnat-wing buzzing
at night
like a radio talking to itself?
i guess what i want to know 
is how close you walk behind me
& what your wings look like?
i have imagined you as a blue jay--
they've always been my favorite
bird & every time i say that someone
gives me some bird fact about them
being kind of feisty & not
as sweet as blue birds
but i like a blue jay & i'd
like it if you had wings like
a blue jays-- all cobalt &
black stripe & white line-- 
some night maybe you could sing to me?
i guess i'm writing to you
because sometimes when i walk
home on street lamp islands 
i turn around because i feel like
someone is watching me--
actually i feel like everything
is watching me-- the trees
crane their necks downwards--
the moths stop banging themselves
on lamp light long enough to
keep a vigil over this boy
with his hands deep in his pockets--
i guess i'm writing because 
i'd like to believe in you--
not because i think you'll catch
me when i fall off a bridge 
but because it feels nice to be
listened to-- like having an audience--
do you think of me as a poem?
--a nice poem written on the back
of paper napkin or
a bathroom stall-- somewhere it
could really shimmer--
is there someone who listens to you?
i would hope so-- if not this
is an invitation to come down 
& exchange roles for a day or
two-- i'd love your blue jay wings 
& you can be the boy writing 
poems & walking home far too
alone
i thought at least
i could invite you to
come with my tonight
as i try put the summer back
together-- here hold a handful
of leaves-- we can tape them back
to the torsos of the trees--
i have a roll of scotch 
in top drawer of my desk--
one at a time-- that's how
you teach them to hold on--
i want to hold on tighter
& summer is cutting her hair 
into the stream & i can't stand 
to see her hair float like
leaves-- it's silly really
to tape back on the leaves--
when i cut off my hair
no one tried to tape it back on
but you see it's the notion
of summer--
it just shouldn't be able to
end like that--
like a jar lid-- like the resurrection 
of all the street lamps at once--
oh guardian angel
wherever you are i hope you
take days off from me--
i hope there's afternoons where you
go off to garden-- prune the fig 
tree lodged in my heart--
i hope when you try to sleep
you don't worry about me--
i can keep myself from falling--
i've gotten good at it so far--
& if you do in fact want to switch places
just wake me up in the body of a blue
jay-- i'll sing to you--
& you can be the boy 
whose august body kisses
each leaf before it falls--
let's put summer back together--
oh blue jay i've been praying to
i'm not ready
i'm not ready 
take me with you next
time you sleep--
i want a break 
from being watched-- 
to be alone with only the light
from the street--
i've been in the process of
crossing this bridge from the back
of a prayer card
over & over & over
as if one of these
times i'm going to fall
& you will be there-- cobalt
wing & song

she came down  

the people on the ferry 
leaving staton island 
will be the first
ones to notice-- 
they're
the morning people--
clutching coffee cups full
of holy water-- letting
sea air kiss their necks
lightly-- leaving barnacles
to grow there-- a nurse
will make small talk about
traffic & a university student
will pace the deck 
as she always does-- trying
to write a thesis under her
feet while also 
thinking about how easy it
would be for the whole thing
to sink--
from inside the hull--
on an orange plastic bench 
would sit a man who rode back & 
forth three times already 
that day--
he'd look up to gaze wistfully 
at his green copper lover 
only to find an empty
space & a vacant pedestal
against the back drop of
the red-plum dawn--
he'd stand up & walk to
the porthole 
he'd usher others 
over to check to make
sure that this time it wasn't 
only him who had lost her--
by the time the ferry docked
every passenger would be
frantic--
looking into the horizon like
a sandbox or a sink drain
for the green body of 
the statue of liberty--
but she was no where
to be found--
people would start to call her
name down the streets--
post her picture in every bus
station-- every subway stop
in new york--
the whole city would
form one body to miss her
with--
the mayor would make her promises
if only she would crawl back
up onto her stage--
other women tried to stand there--
they'd hold a contest to try
to fill the position & only end up
weeping & calling into
the night for her to come home
& all the while 
she would be there--
bunched up in an overcoat in
central park--
she'd wake up in the morning 
& buy a loaf of dollar store
bread rolls-- crumple them &
feed them to the pigeons &
laugh when the birds flourished
around her like storm clouds--
she'd buy a hot dog from 
the grumpiest hot 
dog vendor & he would always ask
her if he'd seen her somewhere--
she'd brush a strand of her away from
her face & tell him gently that
he must be mistaken--
she'd eat hot dogs with mustard
& relish they way we should
all he eat hot dogs--
as night would come she would
be cold & she'd try to
sleep on a park bench away from
where a police man might see her--
a handful of midnights they would
come by & wake her up--
she'd sleep walk to another part of the
city-- crown clutched tight
to her chest--
eventually she'd make it
to port authority & she'd spend several days
just watching the buses come
& go-- she would have forgotten
how much of the world meets
in the city-- she'd ask 
people where they were going &
her face would light up
as she listened
chicago, philedelphia, montreal,
frisco, pittsburg, boston--
she felt the people like the
city like doves flying out of
her mouth--
she'd pass a television
& hear another news cast about
a lost lady liberty &
for a moment she would pause 
to hear him out--
under her arm would be the torch--
unlit-- looking almost like
a folded news paper--
there would come one morning 
where she would decide it would
be okay to leave her own body 
there-- she would kiss
the knees of the bench she
had slept on & walk onto 
the first bus arriving at
gate 36 & because the number
would have looked divine to her--
she'd drop her torch in a
recycling bin & maybe keep
her crown for memories--
she'd run her hand through her
hair-- lean up against the bus
window & watch the city grow small
in the distance--
her nose would be running
from the cold &
a stranger next to her would
off her a tissue
from a pink traveling pack &
he'd pull out an earbud 
& tell her that she looked 
familiar

in the hopes the fog would take me

i took a walk in the hopes
the fog would take me--
put my hood up to get rid
of my face--
the street lamps look
sanctified-- all cloaked
in mist-- they wink at me 
& stop lights
kiss each other while
i'm not looking--

tonight i could be the only
human left on earth
i think to myself 

because there's no
one else with you
in the fog & even your
body starts to seem
foreign--

when a car goes by 
i pretend it's just 
an angel--

i feel my body 
expanding-- growing vast
& wide 
the tiny droplets 
of water breathe heavily on
the necks of the trees--
the maples kiss each 
crimson-red leaf before
they drop them to the sidewalk
like young birds who have
to learn to fly--

like all bodies,
the mist will
leave & when it does
i hope it takes me up with it--

i want to be a cloud--
i want so badly to rain
& to be gray--
i want to feel thunder boil
in my veins--
i want to fall in the corn
field-- drip from
telephone wires & rush down
main street to get dirty 
from the road--

i want to wash everything--
the front side of the moon--
the leaves that couldn't open
their wings--
the song birds beneath tree branches
teaching their children about
the body of the rain--

i want so badly to rain &
to fall heavy on your umbrella 

this sacrosanct street is
full of bodies of which
i am only one 
     & also them all

i want to rain so i can
feel what it's like to tumble
off the tops of your shoes--

wipe me off your cheek

this is a hapless prayer
to the fog to take
me when you decide to
crawl back upstairs--

i want to rain 
i want to rain
i want to rain 

dear joan of arc,

what's it like to become
the Seine river? 
i've been thinking about
you a lot lately--
mostly because of
how many poems people have
written about you--
i hope you don't mind but i
would like to write another--
this one isn't a metaphor--
this one isn't about a young
girl turned into a fire &
then a river this one
is a invitation--
if you would have time
i would like to meet you--
it could be anywhere but
i would prefer somewhere romantic
like a park bench or a fountain--
yes, a fountain would be nice
or the creek that runs near
my parents house--
we could take off our shoes 
& walk in the chilly autumn
water & i could tell you 
all about how when i was
fourteen i couldn't wear
armor but that we all bled 
milk & when the fire ate us
we turned into water--
found our way beneath the river
stones to sleep where our bodies
couldn't find us--
i would ask you if you
know how to skip a stone &
of course you wouldn't--
you were too busy listening
to angels--
i tell you to hold it like this--
no--no 
you need to find a flat one--
& we toss them to the other side
of the water--
yours takes three leaps even
though it's the first time
you've ever skipped a stone--
could you tell me what the
angels sound like or do you not
remember?
do you still talk to them?
alone at night when 
you are a river & the
night sky washes her
hair in your arms-- do you
still hear angels?
i believe you if you say you
did & i still love you if
you admit that you didn't--
i think we've all heard angels--
i want to ask you've ever
made a duck call out of
a piece of grass-- press
your thumbs together & 
put the blade in between them--
wet it just a little bit but
not too much--
yes you have it-- it's not hard--
i hope you don't have to
go back to being a river
so soon because i would
like to stay by the creek long
enough to watch the sunset
paint herself behind the 
trees-- we can stuff our
pockets with the colorful 
leaves & maybe keep some of
their colors for ourselves--
there's the oak 
& the red maple becoming fire--
igniting our pockets & our
hands & i watch the flames 
consume you & i say i'm sorry 
for asking you to leave
your body so that we could
walk on the bowed heads of
the stones-- i say i'm sorry for
making you a metaphor instead
of a girl like me-- a metaphor
like me-- another girl who
hid her body in a river 
so she could no longer burn--
they dumped your ashes in the
Seine river after burning you
three times & i can't help
but think of you dispersing--
floating farther & farther away 
from yourself-- your body a part
of all the water-- the bends--
the curled fingers around the ankles
of all the light in paris--
that is nothing compared to my
creek--
if you should have the time come 
& meet me here--
we can be lovers or friends or 
children-- it's whatever you
want to make of it--
when we're done we can be fire together--
let the doves lose from our
throat-- they'll see our smoke
signals across the ocean &
the angels will tell me i was
silly to try to love a girl
who is now only a river--
lay down with me like
the night who sleeps on
the surface of the water--
dear Joan dear Joan
meet me if you can--
we can leave our bodies in
the water--

when i grow up i want to a park pavilion 

when i grow up i want
to be a park pavilion--
the kind that holds the night
sky up like the great mast of
a sail boat made of egg cartons
& rubber bands--
i'll collect the initials 
of young lovers in
my body-- feels the etching
of their hearts beat
faster as they kiss beneath me.
when it rains sudden in
august the girls who swing
too high on the big kid swings
& the boys who hang upside
down on the monkey bars will 
crowd beneath me & make pews
out of the wooden
picnic benches & i'll feel
their bodies soft up against mine--
they won't talk to each other because
girls don't play with boys 
& the swings have already taken
her to the tops of the trees--
she has no where left to see.
my throat will be wide
enough for birthday parties
& there will always be a kid
who shows up uninvited--
he was just at the park with his baby-
sitter & decided to join in--
he'll blew out a candle &
eat the flame-- swallowed like
gnat wings--
underneath my body it's everyone's
birthday but no one is ever a year
older-- it's just an excuse
to light candles.
look at the squirrels as
they scurry across
my forehead-- trying to find
a halo--
my body will be the kind of religion
built out of the inconspicuous practice
of love--
in october when everyone's
bodies get accustomed to
living in desks again
i will press
my thumb to the sets of
initials still carved 
into my collar bones--
she'll return
to take back her kisses--
fill her pockets with them--
all different colors--
some the shade of bruises &
others as vibrant red as 
the apples that start blusing
in the sun--
she swallows them whole
so no one will
take them again-- she sits
in the park pavilion--
my body & she writes
a poem on her iPhone--
& dreams of sleeping there
in my skeleton-- laying
out on the cold cement floor of
my figure--
she traces circles on
the ground with a branch--
she writes her name invisible
but i grab onto it--
press it to my chest & fold it
into an air plane--
& when she leave me i will have 
the memory of her body--
oh when i grow up
i want to be a park pavilion--
my hair will grow
moss from the rain-- your
foot steps will leave me echoing
with ghosts &
the night will teach me
how to fold my pillars
inward & sleep with the
light in my ceiling on--
it's calling the moths
home like an audacious 
& brilliant mother--
oh how she burns their
wings.

children who perform invisibility spells

when i was in third grade
my belief in dragons rivaled my
belief in God--
i kept the dragonology 
hand guide like a bible
beneath my
pillow--
i studied their bodies--
their skeletons-- drew
their wing spans across
my notebook margins in spelling class
When Justin & Tyler would
take turns daring each other
to ask me out i would focus harder
on the contours of their bones--

in the middle of the 
red dragonology book
there was a small packet
of glitter with a spell
written in runes behind it--
one night on the floor of my
rain forest bed room i 
decoded it-- letter
by letter-- written
on the back of a sketch pad--
i pushed the little metal
button on my door knob to 
lock myself inside--
this was my study-- my chamber--
i pulled my green blanket around
myself as a cloak & i
held up the finished spell
to the lamp mounted 
on the leg of my bunk bed--
my lips moved with the words--
carefully so as to not speak
them out loud because we
all know that magic comes
when you let words free into
the air--
i turned off my fan & i 
took the packet of dragon dust
from its spot in the book--
i figured i only had one
shot to get it right--
following the instructions
for the HONG WEI invisibility 
spell i spoke the words
as i poured the dust over
myself--

i like to wonder what would have
happened if i would have disappeared--
felt myself go see-through--
i think i would have stood up
to shake it off at first--
as if i might be able
to shake myself back into a
body-- i would marvel at
the emptiness of myself--
hold my hands in front
of my face & see nothing--
i would not unlock the door yet--

upon performing the spell i had mentally
prepared myself for invisibility--
i said that it couldn't last
forever & if it did there
was a whole slew of new things
to try-- i could go to school
& walk everywhere
including the teacher's lunch room
where they keep the jar of graham crackers
& i could listen to hear 
what kinds of things people
like Rachel & Ashley talked about
when they thought no one was around--

i could know what Mrs. Bowman does when
she's not on recess duty &
i'd pick up a peanut butter & jelly
sandwich from the lunch line 
when no one was looking--
(i'd have to be stealthy or 
they'd see a floating sandwich)

alone i'd sit on a bench
by the creek next to the elementary
school-- i'd peel off the sandwich crusts
& throw them to the ducks &
maybe for a moment i might miss
having a body that other 
people could see--

not much though-- i remember thinking
how much easier life would
be if the spell worked-- that
there was so little you
could do to someone who had
no arms or legs or face or body--
i would be only touch & thoughts
& mouth & unlocked doorknobs--

i resolved that i would wait &
tell my father-- i would wait till he was
putting billy to bed &  then i'd
crawl up to the top bunk &
tell him to tell us a story about
when he was little &
they'd both scream & i'd say
it's just me 
& they'd search the room
for the body from where my voice came

i'd tell them i had performed
an invisibility spell & they would
understand-- i figured mom might be 
a bit upset considering she
didn't like my playing magic so much--

standing in my locked bed room
i looked down at my chubby stomach
pocking over the waistline
of my blue pants-- white
& soft like dough
i brushed the glitter off
myself & waited a moment longer
as if myself the dust needed a 
second or two to take effect--
i was tragically visible & i put the 
rest of the glitter 
in the waste basket--
got up & unlocked the door to
my room &
laid on the bottom of
my bunk bed--

i yearned 
for a body that could
be looked through--

if sleeping beauty didn't wake up 

we would say
what kind of girl's body
doesn't open by the mouth?
she had to have been
a whore or some kind
of night stepping wanderer--
what kind of girl doesn't
open like a hinge?
what kind of girl sleeps
through the want
of a prince?
& he would walk away
like all boys do when
they don't get
what they set out for--
across the kingdom 
the story of a prince
so wronged by a sleeping
woman would become
the story they told their girls
before they fell asleep--
to not be frigid & slumber
like the sleeping princess
who didn't know how
to wake up from her mouth--
who didn't know that on
her body was mapped a
boy's plot line
& awake in bed the girls
would fear sleep itself--
they would share stories
stories by the moon &
ask if each other had ever failed
to wake up in the morning--
but some girls 
some girls 
would want to find her--
they would take backpacks
as if they were going to 
school-- fill them with maps
& notebooks--
they would rip their stocking 
on briers & carry their slippers
in their hands & they would 
make their way over
the mountain ridge
at the far end of the kingdom--
following the persistent
blooming of hydrangeas like
the forest itself was blushing--
there in the depths of the trees 
she would lay-- wrapped
in vine & branch-- a body
embraced by ivy-- blooming
with flowers all around
her-- her face a tulip bulb &
the girls would stand in
horror & relief to know
that it was true--
that they didn't have to
wake up-- that there
was a body whose sleep
was so deep that not
even a boy could force her
to rise--
between themselves they
made up tales of what she had been
dreaming of all this time--
they said that she tamed dragons--
at she was a witch & a goddess
& a mother & a girl &
one of the them said that 
maybe she dreamed of a
princess who would come & kiss
her & she wouldn't have to
wake up to be in love with her--
they would leave offerings at
her feet-- handfuls of smooth
stones they had collected when
they crossed the brook &
dandelions which can always
serve as approximations for
a flower--
they would kiss her feet
among the brush &
they would leave without
another word-- back over the mountain
ridge back to homes &
cottages where they would sew back
& not sew the holes in their
stockings & sleep heavy &
so full of dreams 
that at times they felt
as if maybe just maybe
they would not wake up--

the facebook birthday phenomenon

hello,
it was nice to see
you 
& you're looking
well 
& by 'looking well'
i mean looking different
than when i knew you but 
still the same &
when i say it was nice
to see you i mean it
was nice to scroll
through your pictures on
facebook--

if i go back far enough
you'll be wearing the
same neon green head band
that you used to
in fifth grade or maybe 
the knee-high converse
that i was jealous of
even though the zipper
on the back would
get caught sometimes &
you'd be the last to 
get changed from gym
class--

we pretend the facebook
birthday phenomenon
is impersonal-- an electronic
notification that someone
that you have once
known or still know or
know only vaguely 
was born this day--
their name gift wrapped
on your dash board--
but 
this is when
you open them up  again--

you feel 
the way her voice sounded--
it reverberates off the
walls of your room--
you remember
the way she used to
bite her hair
& how Mrs. Hess in second
grade had told her it was
a nasty habit--

this time you go 
to his birthday party
even though you don't
know what sixth grade
boys want as presents
but what does anyone want
as a present anyway?

i want to be remembered--

when i get notifications
about your birthday i 
think of everything i have
ever wanted to say to you--

i start typing on your
timeline-- i write about how
you said something that
made me smile
during an afternoon
study hall & i wasn't supposed
to be listening to your conversation
but i'll never forget 
what you said about wishing
he would love
you like he did in the summer
& about how your mother
found an empty beer bottle
in your room

& i'm sorry that i never
said something to you when
i noticed you crying in the bathroom
we've all been crying in a bathroom 

& i want to come meet
you again-- we can get coffee
& catch up about the
conversations we never had & 

i'll tell you that i always wanted to
know how it was you
braided your hair like a fish tail--
go ahead you can ask why
i cut all of mine off--
 
there are so many people
that i know as a stack of
changing profile pictures--
in the latest one you're
wearing sunglasses & tilting your head 
you're submerged in an instagram filter--

let's turn black & white--
sun-stain our faces--
live between the months of our
bodies--
turn younger & older
& younger again--
do you ever look
through my photos?
i'd love it if you did--

instead of all that
i delete 
everything i wanted
to say to you--
i rest the cursor over
the empty text box &
i write 
happy birthday :)

& now you know
what the means

a room of our own

this year i was going
to live alone
as all poets eventually should--
my room's 
on the second floor of
a house with a white nose
& a window that looks
out wistfully at
the parking lot--
i thought 
this is how we
all become writers--
like Emily who wrote
herself into a ghost & if
she could then
then so would i-- alone
in a room with mobiles of
words dangling from the
ceiling--
but then of course
i had thought of her so
she was there to stay--
she didn't knock nor
did i hear her come in--
i came home to find
Emily wearing 
her long white dress & rocking
back in my desk chair--
she was 
jotting down brief sonnets
in my green marble notebook--
she doesn't say much
she likes to eat finger sandwiches
& she said that she would 
do the wash every other
load--
i figured i could manage her
but then of course 
there's not just one
of us--
the next day
i made a cup of coffee & let
it set to cool & when i returned
Sylvia was there stirring it
with one of my tiny
silver spoons
Was this yours?
she asked innocently 
& took a seat in the corner
of the room on my bean bag chair--
i let her make the coffee now
she does it better &
sometimes when it's too
late to be writing
she'll stay up 
with me & tell me stories
of the city in the winter & i'll
fall asleep--
she'll pick me up like a little
girl & puts me into my bed--
& i admit i don't
know where they all sleep--
perhaps they become shadows or
they crouch in the closet--
they haven't stopped coming &
yesterday in the afternoon
Millay brought us a bag of
apples from the fruit carts on 
MacDougal Street--
we shared them all sliced up
& before we were finished
there came more & more &
Gwendolyn said that the world 
is at the window so
we all got up to look
& grab handfuls of headlights--
stuff the light into our
pockets & laugh at
the rush of it all--
this continued for weeks & even
Shakespeare's sister put
hung a row of Christmas lights
about my bed--
i told them yes-- yes i
need to be alone but don't
leave just yet--
tell me another story--
another sonnet on the back of
a napkin--
sleep here tonight & 
in the morning i'll make
the coffee & we'll
write something astounding 
about this room--